


Hush

by dietplainlite



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anxiety, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Engagement, Engagement Party, F/M, Panic Attack, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-13 06:11:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4510830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dietplainlite/pseuds/dietplainlite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the midst of her engagement party, Molly has a panic attack and makes a rash decision.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hush

The room is dark and the bed is blessedly cool and soft as she climbs into it, only taking the time to kick off her shoes. The pressure builds behind her eyes again but she squeezes them shut, even though it hurts so much. It’ll hurt more to let it go.

“I’ll be right outside,” her mother says, placing a tall glass of water on the night stand.  “Are you sure you don’t want a valium?”

“I’m sure, Mum,” she whispers. The worst of the attack is over and she’s certain she can sleep without aid, if only she can keep back the inevitable waves of embarrassment.  She’ll focus on how well she did with her coping methods. The breathing. The counting.

“Molly, we only wanted to make you happy. To show you how happy we all are for you. For the both of you.”

“We’ll talk about it later.”

“You could have said no.”

Molly pulls her pillow over her head. “Not now, Mum.”

“Alright.  I’ll not say another word.” 

The door clicks closed and a few seconds later her mother turns on the telly.

Molly begins a count down from fifty, breathing in calm and pushing out worry.  She falls asleep between fifteen and fourteen.

* * *

 

_Four Weeks Earlier_

The door had barely shut behind Molly when the buzzer sounded.  She’d ordered Chinese on her way home but that had been ten minutes ago.  The place up the street was good, but not that good.

She pressed the intercom button. “Hello?”

“Let me in, dear.  I need your address book for these invitations.”

“Mum?”

“Of course.  Let me in.”

Molly buzzed her in and cracked the door.  A minute later her mother huffed into the room, loaded down with carrier bags and an overstuffed purse.  Molly kissed her on the cheek and relieved her of her burdens.

“This is a pleasant surprise. But did you say something about invitations?  Everyone we want to come already knows.”

“Not for the wedding, dear, for the party.”

“Party?”

Katherine Hooper pulled two binders and a notebook from her purse and placed them on the kitchen table before reaching into one of the carrier bags, which seemed to be full of serviettes of varying colors.

“Mum, what the bloody hell are you talking about?” 

“Honestly, Molly, that language! We’ve talked about this.  Your engagement party.  On the twenty fourth.  Don’t stand there gaping at me; we’ve talked about this.”

Molly’s face felt hot, and her skin tingled. The same feeling she’d get when she was younger and her mother would move her things, forget where she’d moved them to, then deny she’d seen them, much less touched them.

“You know very well we haven’t.”

The low, steady pitch of Molly’s voice stopped her mother cold.  She stopped arranging the serviettes in rainbow order and looked at her daughter.

“I’m sorry. I could have sworn we had. Or that Millie had told you.”

“Mrs. Holmes?  She knows about this, too?”

“Of course! We’re planning it together.”

“But we don’t want a big party. Of any kind.  That’s kind of the point of a destination wedding.”

 “Dear,” Molly’s mother had said.  “People want to celebrate with you. And since you refuse to have a reception, an engagement party is the perfect compromise. “

 “The point of going _away_ is that we don’t want a bunch of people staring at us! You know you’re more than welcome to come to Aruba. We told you that. We just want close friends and family.”

Mrs. Hooper flipped through one of the binders and took out a piece of paper.  “These are your close friends and family! I need addresses for the highlighted ones so I can get the rest of the invitations ready to go out.”

Molly took the list from her mother’s hand.  “Mum,” she said. “These are cousins I haven’t seen since I was in primary school and great aunts I’ve never met at all!  And I’m hardly close with your garden club!”

“Well, Millie Holmes has a hundred people on her guest list. How would it look if we only had twenty or so?”

“A hun—A hundred?”  Molly slumped in a chair.  “And did you say, ‘the rest of the invitations’?”

“Yes. They’ll all go out in tomorrow’s post.”

“So you haven’t sent any of them?”

“No, I wanted them to all go out at once so no one would think they were being snubbed.”

Molly smiled and sat back.  “Oh good.  Oh thank god. That means it won’t be awkward to cancel.”

“Cancel?”

“Yes, Mum.  We don’t want a party. I am so, so grateful that you and Mrs. Holmes wanted to do this for us but we really don’t want it and would feel terrible about the expense.”

“We can’t cancel, darling.  The hall’s been paid for in full, and we’ve already put down a deposit on the band and the caterer.  Now stop being such a brat and help me choose a linen color.  I’m torn between “Pink Champagne” and “Tuscan Sea.””

* * *

 

Later that night, Molly paced in front of the fireplace at 221b Baker Street  while Sherlock tuned his violin.

“They can use it for an anniversary party , or a garden club mixer or a Meddling Old Biddies Society luncheon for all I care. And you,” she pointed at her fiancé.  “How could you of all people not realize what your mum was up to?”

“Simple,” Sherlock said.  “I haven’t spoken to her since we told them about the wedding. Nor have I read her emails.  Though now that I think about it there were one or two with subject lines like ‘Does Molly like fish or chicken’ and ‘How do you feel about reggae bands?’”

“How can you be so calm about this?  You didn’t even want Mary and John to do a drinks thing and now we’re going to be displayed like show dogs in front of a live audience.”

“Balance of probability says I’ll get called away on an urgent case that evening.  And if it’s a murder you just might be able to get out of it as well.”

“Are you kidding me?” He stopped mid-scale at the pitch of her voice.  He placed the violin on the table, stood up and gestured for her to come to him. 

She shuffled over and snuggled into his chest.  He wrapped his arms around her and swayed gently, letting her match her breathing to his as she listened to the thrum of his heart. 

“There’s nothing stopping us from getting married whenever we want,” his voice rumbled.  “You’ve got the dress.  I’m not hurting for suits.  We could go to city hall tomorrow. “

Molly hadn’t even begun thinking seriously about a dress when she’d come across the 90s slip dress in a vintage store in Kensington.  But when she’d seen the creamy silk with the tiny brocade daisies, she’d known, exactly the way she’d always been told she’d know.  For a moment she pictured it, the two of them sneaking off to a court house with Mary and John as witnesses, a farmer’s market bouquet in her hand, Sherlock in his new grey suit, a daisy in his buttonhole.  A quiet dinner while Angelo fussed over them, and a last minute room at the Montague. 

Casually telling their mothers an engagement party wasn’t necessary because they’d gotten married.  Without them.

“It’s no good,” she said, pressing closer to him.  “They’ll just call the party a reception. And they’d never forgive us for going through it without them, and they’d end up coming with us on our honeymoon anyway because they’ve already booked their trip. So I suppose there’s only one question left.”

“Hmm?”

Molly looked up at him, resting her chin on his chest.  “Do you prefer ‘Pink Champagne’ or ‘Tuscan Sea’?”

* * *

 

For having been planned by two tchotchke loving pensioners who’d hit their prime in the 1960s, the party turned out to be relatively tasteful, owing mostly to Molly having Mary step in as a mediator for a dispute over the necessity of ice sculptures and staying on to provide the much needed perspective of a person born after the end of the Vietnam conflict.  She’d deftly nixed not only the ice sculptures, but also fondue and floor cushions for seating, though she’d given her enthusiastic consent to the reggae band.

“Compromise,” she’d said to Molly. “It was either Rob Harley and the Sailors, or wandering jugglers”

“Really?”

“No but I felt it might be imminent when Mrs. Holmes started waxing nostalgic about Renaissance Faires.”

“Thank you,” Molly had said, giving her friend a kiss on the cheek as she willed away the image of her engagement party as a Madrigal Feast.

The final product was a bit more hip than your average retirement party, though nothing that would make its way into the Style section of the Times.  Mary had steered the mothers toward a loose “resort” theme, to go along with the destination wedding, with pastel linens, tall centerpieces featuring seashells and floating candles.  She’d also insisted they hire an actual Jamaican caterer. Molly especially enjoyed the mini beef patties that were passed around on trays.

However, by the time they were dragged onto the stage for toasts, Molly regretted indulging in so many.  Her stomach rolled, her hands were damp and her arms and legs felt prickly. Her physical state distracted her from her mother’s speech until the end.

“And I can say with full confidence that your father would welcome Sherlock into the family with open arms.”

Molly smiled at her mother, then up at Sherlock, feeling as though she’d taken a step back in her mind and was lookin at everything from afar. He seemed like a stranger. How could she marry a stranger?

She knew exactly what was happening, but knowing only made it more disconcerting.  She couldn’t remember her exercises, either.  She could feel the pressure of Sherlock’s hand on her back but she couldn’t feel his touch anymore. She stepped away suddenly and he frowned at her briefly.

“Do you need to step outside, Molly?”

“No!”  Her mother stopped speaking.  Molly pushed away from Sherlock.  “No I don’t need anything. I just.  I’m sorry I can’t do this.”

“Alright, we can leave.  Katherine I apologize but—“

“No,” Molly said. Her vision tunneled. She had to get away.  She didn’t know what she was doing. “Please.  I can’t do this.  I’m so sorry Sherlock I can’t.”  Her hands were shaking too badly to get a good grip on the antique sapphire ring but she finally worked it off and shoved it in his hand.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and fled. 

Her mother caught up with her outside, gotten her to do the exercise that worked most often. 

“Molly, tell me five things that are blue you can see right now.”  She handed her a tissue to tear up while she talked.

“Those flowers.  Your terrible sandals. My fingernails.  That car. Your eyes.”

“Good, darling.  Now tell me five white things you can see.”

They continued in the cab to Molly’s flat, and it only took two more colors and one more tissue to get Molly’s breathing to normal, though she still felt disoriented and exhausted even after getting into bed.

* * *

 

She wakes to warm solidity at her back, the tickle of breathing on her neck and a long arm draped around her.  He’s turned the television on, just loud enough so her mum can’t eavesdrop.

“Did she feel sorry for you and let you in?”

“Toby vomited and she didn’t want to clean it herself.”

“Really?”

He starts plucking the pins from her hair. “Absolutely. You should have seen her face when I put sheet of kitchen roll over it and came in here. I also may have shushed her when she yelled at me.  Didn’t want her to wake you.” He reaches over her to place the pins in the dish on her night stand.  “Is that okay?”

“Yes,” she says, tingles running up her spine as he begins raking his fingers through her hair.  “But you have to apologize to her tomorrow.”

“If I must.”

Molly rolls over to face him.  Light from the window illuminates the curve of his cheek, but his eyes are in shadow.  “You must.”

Sherlock reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out the ring.

“Sherlock—“

He holds the ring up to the light coming in the window, gazing at it as he speaks. “When I proposed to you, I think I gave you the entire history of this ring, from its first owner to my mum, as well as everything you’d want to know about karat weight, clarity, and my opinions on the relative worthlessness of gems.”

“I seem to remember that.”

“And the next morning—“

“I was so afraid you were going to call me when you got home and tell me you’d changed your mind!”

“Well, I did have one regret.”

“Oh?” Molly says, stomach dropping. 

He turns to face her, placing the ring on the bed between them.  He takes her hand and rubs gentle circles on the back of her hand with his thumb.  “I realized that with everything I said about marriage and how it made sense, and even with everything that happened afterwards, I didn’t tell you that I love you.”

“Sherlock, I know you do.  It’s not like you hadn’t said it before.”

“Yes, but I think it was rather important to say it on that occasion, don’t you?”

“Perhaps,” she says.  She puts her index finger in the center of the ring and moves it in a figure eight pattern on the sheet.  He places his hand over hers and she looks into his eyes. He looks so vulnerable, like a boy who’s just spilled juice on his mother’s carpet. 

“I love you,” he says.  “And I hope you’ll still have me, because it might be a bit awkward, us going on holiday together, if we aren’t engaged anymore.”

Molly finally lets the tears flow, and they aren’t painful at all.  “Yes, of course.” 

Sherlock slides the ring back on her finger and kisses her hand, then her forehead.  “I should have said not to them.  Every once in a while it’s a good idea to appease my mother, but I shouldn’t do it at your expense.”

“I think they learned their lesson though.”

“For now.”

“They’re going to invite half the resort to the ceremony, aren’t they.”

“Of course.”

“It could be worse. At least they’re happy for us.  And get along.”

“I don’t know how fortunate that last part is.”  He pulls her into his arms and rests his chin on her head. It’s her favorite way to lie with him, engulfed in his arms and his voice and the scent of his neck.

“Hush,” she says.  “Meena’s mum doesn’t get along with her wife’s mum at all and it’s horrible for both of them. And it’s not like it got her out of an engagement party or a wedding reception.”

“You’re right.  However, a courthouse elopement is still possible. We wouldn’t have to tell anyone. We could still do the ceremony for everyone else in Aruba, but our actual wedding will be ours.”

She pulls back so she can get a look at him.  Still vulnerable. A little less fearful. A bit of a twinkle in his eye but yes, he’s serious.

“Secretly married for a whole month? That sounds amazing.”

“Monday, then?”

“I’m free, as long as there are no murders,” she says, snuggling into him again.

“I think that can wait, for once.”

“Really?”

“Well the ceremony will only take fifteen minutes or so, right?”

Molly gives his nipple a gentle pinch. “We’ll postpone for anything over a seven, okay?”

“Hmm.”  She gives his nipple a slightly harder pinch.  “Deal!”

She buries her face in his chest to stifle her giggles.  Her breathing slows as his fingers find that sweet spot on her scalp.  She’s not sleepy, but she’s in no hurry to move, content to drift with this man, warm and safe.


End file.
